


And They'll Find Us In A Week (In the Woods Somewhere)

by ghermez



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Camping, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghermez/pseuds/ghermez
Summary: Atsumu takes Aran to the woods. Aran takes Atsumu's peeled apple into his mouth. They watch one another.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Ojiro Aran
Comments: 28
Kudos: 62





	1. I have never known hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mountsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mountsky/gifts).



> THIS IS FOR SKY AND SKY ALONE. THANK YOU FOR BEING SO GORGEOUS AND FUNNY AND A GENERAL HEARTTHROB.
> 
> i'm on twitter as [@kuroosauce](https://twitter.com/kuroosauce)

Part I: 

What caused the wound?  
How large the teeth?  
I saw new eyes were watching me

Aran

“You do realize that when you promised nature and fresh air, I automatically assumed an outdoor spa, right?” Aran asks, bringing a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the forming headache just there. God. What did he agree to?

The thing is, Aran has very little control when it comes to the brassy-haired, brash guy bustling around to his left. What Miya Atsumu wants… Aran doesn’t finish the thought because even to his own mind, his whipped status is shameful. He shouldn’t _be_ this malleable to Atsumu’s whims.

Except, nothing about the heavy-looking backpack and the Onigiri Miya van he clearly borrowed from Osamu screams _whimsical_. Matter of fact, Atsumu seems pretty prepared. But, they’re standing in one of Miyagi’s heavily forested parks, and, Atsumu happily brandishes, they’ve got approval to stay the entire week. Aran’s patience is running out on him already.

“A week? A whole week here?” he can’t help but shout.

Atsumu’s eyes are honest to god glittering as he replies, “Isn’t it fun?!” Then he goes on, unpacking the van of the camping supplies—half of which Aran can’t name except, well, for the tent. 

“Here, I got you a chair ‘cause I know how much you like sittin’ around.”

Aran gives him a dirty look.

Atsumu grins in response, and with way too much flourish, unfolds the chair and plants it in a bed of leaves. God. they aren’t going to survive an hour, nevertheless a week. 

Except, it is forty-minutes later, and Aran finds out that he does enjoy sitting down with a beer—who knew Atsumu would have the foresight to pack a cooler with Aran’s favorite beer? So, he does what’s expected of him, which is offering scintillating commentary.

“Do you think the coyotes enjoy feasting on volleyball players? Because my mother didn’t raise me to become some coyote’s dinner, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu lets out a loud groan, face upturned, the fleeting sun rays brushing across his cheeks turn him inhuman. Aran pretends he isn’t watching him closely. Like the liar he is. Instead, he complains.

Because after fiddling with the tent for ten solid minutes, they still don’t have a tent. “Come on, forest man, I thought you were one with nature and all that bullshit,” Aran teases, hiccupping already. He’s on his third beer, which is simply a side effect of being so damned cozy, wrapped up in his blanket—Atsumu did tell him to pack a thick one, of which Aran is taking supreme advantage.

“How about you help instead of sitting pretty over there and complaining?” Atsumu huffs. _Pretty_ sparkles in Aran's mind but he waves it away.

“Nah. This is far up my alley than being some lumberjack fiddling with a tent.”

“It’s just a little camping trip, Aran!” Atsumu kicks leaves.

Aran snorts. “And yet it’s got you utterly befuddled.”

“And if I get this tent erected in the next fifteen minutes, will you finally shut up?” Atsumu challenges, picking up some rod or other. Aran can’t be bothered to identify any of the stuff Atsumu is fiddling with.

“I’ll raise you another: if you get this tent up and set, I will grant you a _wish_ ,” he says, far too amused with his own brilliance.

Except Atsumu’s eyes, across the distance between them, shine bright, like a jewel, with mischief, a look Aran knows far too well. “Promise?” Atsumu says.

Aran, like the very same whipped asshole who got dragged to the woods, raises his almost-empty beer—should he go for a forth?—and cheers. “To Atsumu, a grand challenger of Nature.” 

To this, Atsumu gives a shallow bow, then with more determination than Aran sees as truly necessary for erecting a tent, he attacks his mission. Aran really shouldn’t be surprised that Atsumu follows through, the man has been nothing short of a beast, pushing through every struggle, every challenge, and emerging, bloody but intact, and above all: victorious. Atsumu's tenacity is one of the reasons Aran has never gotten over a decade-old crush; instead he's let it fester under his skin like a bad scab. 

Besides, it’s charming and alarming, to watch a man so determined, even better when it’s Atsumu in his puffed red jacket—Aran bets Osamu has a matching blue one—tackling a very stubborn, bright orange tent. But, as with every damned aspect of life, Atsumu surfaces with nothing but bright eyes, a broad grin, and sweet, sweet victory.

The tent, after an hour of fiddling, is ready.

“Your tent, my good sir,” Atsumu says, coming to stand over Aran’s very comfortable spot.

“No, thanks, I’m very happy in my chair.” 

Atsumu has the gall to pout. “But I got it erected just for you.” 

Aran turns the words over in his mind, and he’s sure there’s an innuendo there, but he can’t sharpen it enough, instead, he looks up, squinting against the defiant, waning sun behind Atsumu’s head, and says, “Wanna claim your wish?” 

“Not now,” Atsumu replies, hands on his hips—and the movement draws Aran’s attention to Atsumu’s shapely thighs. Never let Atsumu be called a coward when it comes to squats, that’s for sure. 

He slaps at a mosquito sucking at his neck. “Did you pack some repellant or something? I’m about to be eaten one way or another by your darling forest’s creatures.”

“Nope,” Atsumu replies, and, seeming utterly happy with his first check in a long list of things to-do, he moves to the back of the van and takes out a portable stove.

“Isn’t this cheating?” Aran asks.

“No one said we had to live like animals. Besides, do you want to eat raw steak?”

“You packed meat and not repellant? And you don’t see how _that_ line of thinking can come off as utterly nonsensical?” he rants because he can’t help it. He’s a little tipsy and very _bugged_ about the insects trying to suck his blood.

“What, I did pack a net!” Atsumu defends, carrying out said net, then, inelegantly, he spreads it over Aran, chair included, and grins. “There. We got our prince protected from the pesky mosquitoes.” 

Aran glares at him from under his net, not at all feeling the warmth spreading from his cheeks to his ears. There is just no way Miya Atsumu, the world’s biggest douchebag—and he thinks this _very_ fondly—can make Aran blush. It’s simply inconceivable, so instead, he gives Atsumu a one fingered salute

To which Atsumu winks. The fucker. Aran’s cheeks grow warmer.

But he can’t peel his eyes off Atsumu’s figure as he moves around, preparing their campsite. There’s a folding table propped by the side of the van, an array of items on top including said stovetop, and there’s even some fruit in a tote bag. They’re really going to camp, weren’t they? Aran just might as well get comfortable with the idea of being in a small tent with Miya Atsumu, eternal pain in his neck and perpetual reason Aran’s heart does _not_ settle down. 

He’s staring up at the sky, peering through the trees and his own net, seeing the wink of a couple of stars as the sun goes down, turning the entire world pink and orange. And for a fleeting second, Aran wonders if that’s what his feelings look like: a twinkle in the sea of peachy goodness. He’s distracted by a folded chair settling by his right. The tent is removed, propped by four rods, forming some kind of protective cube in which they can be free from the hungry mosquitoes. Aran, again, for reasons beyond his own control, is impressed with Atsumu’s thinking.

He gazes at Atsumu sitting next to him, looking proud of himself, a bowl of apples in his lap and a knife in his hand. Dangerous, but he wants to see what Atsumu is planning to do with them. Besides, he wouldn’t mind some food, the beer has gotten to his head, something solid wouldn’t hurt. 

“Did you happen to go camping a lot as a kid hence explaining why you’re so weirdly prepared?” Aran asks, accusatory.

Atsumu smiles. “Actually, yeah. Dad used to take me out once a month.”

“What about Osamu?” He watches Atsumu as he halves one apple then into quarters, and carefully, he peels back the skin, thin enough that none of the meat is cut away. 

“Osamu, much like you, hates camping. He prefers to sleep indoors.” The quarters are pale gems in Atsumu’s hands, and when he lifts one in Aran’s direction, as if he’s being led by a demonic urge to expose every ugly intent in his heart, Aran opens his mouth. 

Atsumu’s eyes glitter, but he doesn’t hesitate. He places the meat of the apple slice on the bed of Aran’s lip, but not close enough to allow his finger to brush against Aran’s mouth. He closes his teeth around it, and with his eyes wide open, he chews, slowly, watching Atsumu watching him. 

“I don’t blame him, nature is for animals, obviously,” he says, apple breaking apart on his tongue while something sweeter, thick and suffocating, slides down his throat, stealing his wits.

“I think it’s beautiful. All of this greenery, the air—have you ever breathed air _this_ clean? And come on, you can’t deny that it’s good to be out of all the noise.”

“We lived in Hyogo, not Tokyo. It’s hardly the metropolitan dystopia you’re making it out to be.” 

“Still,” Atsumu says, and he looks like he has more words in him, words of deep love for nature, and if Aran wasn't every bit jealous of God’s creation, he might prompt him to say more, but he can be a petty man at times. 

So, he huffs and steals another quarter of the apple. They’re good, disintegrating in his mouth, barely registering to his mind. And Atsumu keeps peeling more and more. 

They’re down to three apples, a slice or two escaping Aran’s mouth to disappear between Atsumu’s grinning lips—great, another thing Aran is jealous of; an apple slice! And Aran has listened to three stories of how Atsumu’s dad taught him how to fish, pack a backpack in under ten minutes, and put a tent together—

“Hah, you struggled today, just admit it,” Aran pipes up. He’s laughing too much to even notice the darkness descending upon them, turning the air lighter, cooler, truly refreshing, but Aran would rather eat a whole lemon than admit that Atsumu is right.

But he can admit that he is glad to be there, happy, even, with Atsumu bustling about, unveiling to Aran a side that only successfully beats his heart into a pulp. He never had a chance of _not_ falling for Miya Atsumu.

He’s at the cooker, cutting up vegetables for a nabe—of all things to make—when Aran gets up on shaky legs; sitting down for hours upon hours might have turned his knees to jelly, and gets out of his comforting mosquitoes-repelling cube, walking over to Atsumu. He takes his hands out of his pockets and braces himself.

“Do you think it’d be an overkill to—” Atsumu says, turning to him, but Aran frowns and cuts him off with a soft whispered, 

“Shut up.” 

Atsumu blinks. His mouth opens then shuts then opens again, and Aran really wishes it’d stayed closed because now that he peeks the pink of his tongue and the glisten of spit on his lower lip, his control is utterly frayed.

“I like you, okay, asshole, I like you and I'm pretty sure I’ve _liked_ you for the _longest_ time,” Aran finally says, throwing his hands in the air, pretty disturbed by his own words. When he fantasized about confessing to Atsumu, he'd never considered the forest listening in and a soft rustling filling in Atsumu’s silence, and he never, ever, ever, took account of Atsumu smiling.

Big. Bright. So good it can—and should—replace the moon.

Atsumu is smiling and leaning close.

And then Aran is being kissed by Miya Atsumu.


	2. My dearest love, I'm not done yet

Part II:

I have never known color  
Like this morning reveals to me

Atsumu

There are so many sounds in nature, and Atsumu loves each and every one, but his favorite, he thinks absently, is Aran’s snore. The man sleeps with his right cheek squished into the head of his sleeping bag, his mouth parted, little breaths exhaled steadily. 

He spends a healthy minute just watching Aran sleep, tracing the line pressed in his cheek, the curl of one hand under his chin. It’s very darling, but what’s better is being able to lean a little closer, their sleeping bags open since it wasn’t very cold anymore what with the summer sun being out and bright for a solid hour now, and brush the knuckle of one finger along the proud, high nose of Ojiro Aran.

Aran stirs a little, but Atsumu doesn’t startle; doesn’t pull away; doesn’t feign sleep. He keeps his eyes on Aran, watches him as little bits of awareness seep into his expression, his eyes fluttering open, his arms unfurling then rising high over his head, his whole body awakening. It’s like watching a flower bloom in time-lapse. 

“What are you watching for?” Aran says, and even the slight morning breath can’t break the spell.

“You just look so peaceful...so quiet,” he murmurs, grins when Aran groans. 

“Shut up, asshole,” Aran whispers, turning away for a second, then he’s back there, looking at Atsumu then down at himself, at his lack of a shirt.

“Last night really happened, huh?” he mutters to himself but Atsumu has never met a question he didn’t want to answer with something annoying.

“It did. I blew your mind. You will never recover, Aran,” he sing-songs, and then, seeing as they have just confirmed neither one of them forgot the happening of not even six hours ago, Atsumu proceeds to bury his face in Aran’s neck, bringing his hands to rest on a thick waist. It’s so warm here; he doesn’t ever wanna let go.

Aran lets out a soft grunt, but he wraps an arm around Atsumu’s shoulder, settling him against his chest, and for a second, it seems just so good to be nestled with the guy he likes, the guy he has liked for most of his life, actually. But Aran doesn’t need to know. 

_I’ve liked you for the longest time,_ Aran had said before Atsumu kissed him. By all means, Atsumu should feel comfortable to spill his feelings out in the open, confess to every prolonged glance, every deliberate brush of fingers, every time he’d ever pretended to fall asleep on Aran’s shoulder during long bus rides. But his heart feels too fragile, beating like an infant’s, so fast in his throat he feels as if he might choke on it, so he reverts to comedy because that’s always made for a good time.

He turns his face and blows a raspberry into the soft underside of Aran’s chin, cackling when Aran groans again, pushing him away. “You’re the worst, Atsumu,” Aran mutters, always muttering, but Atsumu pulls him back and kisses his stubbly cheek.

“Whoa, check it out, only a day and you’re sporting a beard already, Aran,” he observed, brushing his lips across Aran’s cheeks, liking the pinpricks against his sensitive skin. Then he bares his teeth and takes a tiny nip of Aran’s cheek.

A hand comes to his face, cupping his cheek, and Atsumu is left blinking up at a fond-looking Aran, which isn’t a rarity, per se, but it still knocks the breath out of him. “How about we have a normal good morning kiss like normal couples?” Aran suggests.

“Don’t wanna, my breath stinks,” Atsumu replies quickly because, again, intimacy isn’t the easiest emotion to express and he’d rather die than be _mushy_ on their first morning together. 

But despite it all, Aran doesn’t pull away, eyes slowly blinking shut, eyelashes short and thick resting across high cheeks, kissing Atsumu so delicately it doesn’t disturb the peace settling between Atsumu’s ribs. 

Mouths closed, lips brushing lips, a quiet conversation of clutched fingers and harmonious inhales, Atsumu falls in a new depth of love.

He’s exposed bone afterwards, staring up at Aran, wondering if Aran can see just how wonderfully smitten Atsumu is for him; but the secret smile on Aran’s lips betrays just a little that it what Atsumu feels is mirrored back to him. “Good one, want to do it with tongue this time?” 

Aran scoffs. “Not before you brush your teeth, stinky.” He pushes Atsumu away with a hand to his shoulder. 

Atsumu stares dumbfounded before he sits up to match Aran’s movements. “Hey! You said—”

Aran looks back at him with a smirk. “I said no such thing, go away you’re gross. Damn. Did something die in there?” He gets up and reaches for the tent flap which they’d secured shut last night even in their haste to get inside. 

Atsumu follows him, grabbing his hips and planting kisses across his lower back, until Aran is squirming, laughing, and calling Atsumu the meanest, most loving names. Once he’s gotten his fill of Aran— for now— Atsumu lets him go, watching Aran move across the soft grass of their campsite, heading in the direction of the campfire, which had been so brilliant and cozy last night, especially as they lay breathless from so much kissing and errant touches. 

He watches, amused, as Aran throws some leaves into the ashy pile, then simply looks at it. After a minute, Atsumu pipes up, “You know, it won’t light itself no matter how hard you glare at it.”

Aran explodes beautifully, “Shut up, asshole, I’m trying to figure out how you did it!”

“Well, I definitely didn’t just _stand there_.” He’s really the worst, but damn it, the look on Aran’s face is so far from annoyed. He just looks so damned fond that Atsumu wants to pull up a mirror and show it to Aran and tease him senselessly about it. Losing his own challenge to simply _watch_ Aran lose his composure over the fire, Atsumu gets out of his own nest, putting on a jacket because although it’s that weird weather between summer and fall, he’s always a little sensitive to the breeze and the last thing he wants is a cold on their trip. 

He grabs a couple of the dry tinder he’d collected last night and adds them. “First of all, leaves? Not a good idea; they’re probably wet from the morning dew, so it’s best to use wood,” he says. He hands Aran a couple and shows him where to place them—at the bottom of the campfire pit. “Grab me a lighter, will you?” 

Aran does as asked, bringing back Atsumu’s bright red lighter. “You gotta light up the base, because well, fire burns up.” he demonstrates this by making flames with his fingers. Aran could not look any less amused but god, Atsumu just loves the look of utter _are you done yet_ on his face.

“I’m not an imbecile, I know how fire burns.” Aran stands with his hands on his hips. Atsumu gives him a once-over. 

“Yeah, just don’t know how to _make_ it. You’d make a bad caveman, Aran.”

He rolls his eyes, and it’s too damned precious Atsumu forgets what he’s supposed to be doing. “Shut up and get it started. The morning is chilly.”

He bends down to get close to the campfire base but he still throws over his shoulder, “It’d be less chilly if you had a shirt on, Mr. My Nipples Can Cut Through Glass.”

Aran kicks at his ass, gently, then he’s moving in the direction of their tent. “Shut the hell up! You’re so annoying. God!”

He straightens up, brushing dirt off his hands. “Nope, not God. Just good ole Atsumu.”

Aran says through the flap of the tent, “I will literally kill you and bury you in the woods _where you have brought me._ ” Atsumu hears the rustle of his search for his shirt. And he recalls sharply how Aran lost it last night to Atsumu’s very own hands. He closes his eyes, sees in his mind’s eye Aran’s dazed look when he’d used his mouth on his sensitive skin last night. 

“You can’t even get a fire started and you think you can get away with _my_ murder? Come on, Aran, I thought you weren’t an imbecile.” 

“Don’t think I didn’t see you _looking_ , so don’t bother to complain now.” He puts on a shirt, and Atsumu laments his words the very instant Aran’s shapely tits are out of sight. His big fucking mouth is going to be the end of him one day.

After quickly brushing his teeth, Atsumu makes his way to their little food station and bends over the basket he’d packed. 

“What do you have there?” Aran asks, peering over his shoulder.

Atsumu unearths four, fresh eggs. “These babies.”

“Yum,” Aran hums. “But… Will they taste okay?”

Atsumu cracks them in the same mug he used last night for hot cocoa. A little rinse never hurts anyone. He begins beating them. “That’s why we’re having them today; I mean, they won’t be _bad_.”

“I’m fine with whatever. Just hungry.” Aran stands so close, Atsumu can feel his warmth behind him, his breadth and _Aran_ -ness a punishing reminder of how _much_ Atsumu wants to lean back into him and taste his lips. 

Instead, he covers up his yearning with jokes. “Don’t blame me when we get food poisoning.” Typical.

In response, Aran gives him another fond glare and a kick to the ass. To which Atsumu complains, “Watch it! I’ve got eggs.”

“I hope you spill them on your face.” Aran gets the pan, sprays some oil, then takes the mug from Atsumu’s hands. 

Unable to resist a good nitpicking, Atsumu says, “Now how will I—” 

“Just go slice me some fruit.” Aran scrambles the eggs, using the salt shaker on the table generously, sprinkling some black pepper—Atsumu is really glad he took his time to pack the food. How else would he see Aran make him eggs in the middle of the wilderness, which is an overstatement; it is a public park, there are rangers making rounds every couple of hours. 

“So much for morning glow,” he says, inching closer to Aran until his chest is nestled in Aran’s warmth. “Hold still.” Aran’s back tenses, his hand steady where he holds the handle of the pan. Atsumu wraps one hand around Aran’s torso, and puts another on Aran’s heart. They are of equal height, Atsumu’s mouth resting in Aran’s hair, and when he tilts his head, he can bury it in Aran’s nap, taste the delicate skin behind his ear. 

Aran shudders and huffs, “You took care of that with your morning breath, ‘Tsumu.”

Atsumu chuckles. “Rude. I told you let’s not kiss.”

Still, Aran wraps a hand over Atsumu’s neck and pulls him close for a kiss. This time, it’s minty fresh. Clearly, Aran has made use of the travel kit Atsumu told him to bring along. 

“And yet,” Aran kisses him. “Here we are…” he kisses him again. “Kissing.” Another kiss. It’s a continuous give and take, and it makes him smile.

“You’re going to burn the eggs.”

“Fuck!” Aran lets go, but Atsumu has no such plans. He tightens his hold on Aran and leans his chin over his shoulder, watching him pour the golden eggs into two plates. 

“Wait, did you cut the fruit as I told you?” Aran asks and Atsumu freezes.

“I’m sorry, I saw your ass and lost track of the world.”

“You’re such an—”

Rather than let Aran finish his sentence, Atsumu steals another kiss, a big smack from those gorgeous lips, then deepens it, sliding his tongue along Aran’s lower lip, licks into his mouth, hums at the way Aran pants softly, clutching the sleeve of his puffy jacket with one hand.

“Go get them done or else no eggs for you.”

Atsumu mumbles in reply, hand curling over Aran’s shoulder, “Fuck the eggs, can I have you for breakfast instead?”

“Nope,” Aran whispers, a grin on his mouth, which Atsumu kisses briefly before he goes to carry out his task. Their breakfast is simple enough: scrambled eggs, cut fruit—apples for Aran and guava for Atsumu—and a sleeve of Ritz Crackers Atsumu proudly brandishes two seconds after they sit down under their little anti-mosquitoes net.

Atsumu takes it into his own hands to stuff Aran’s face with as many crackers as he can, until Aran is diving at him with a fork, threatening to make Osamu a single-child. After breakfast, Atsumu tells Aran to pack a light duffel.

“I’m not following you to a second location,” Aran says deadpanned.

Atsumu pokes Aran’s side until he gets him to jolt a little. “Come on, I’m taking you on a hike.”

“What about our things?” Aran asks when Atsumu is stuffing the sleeping bags in the backseat to make space for the bigger things in the trunk. 

“We’ll pack ‘em up in the van.” Atsumu heads to their tent and starts packing their things.

“What about the _van_?” 

Atsumu pats its exterior. “It’s fine, Osamu has insurance.”

“I should really end his misery and dispose of you in these woods.”

“Come on, Aran, you know I love being romanced with threats but I actually had a plan.”

“You and your plans, Miya Atsumu, will be the end of me,” Aran says but he’s still moving to help Atsumu pack their things and place them in the trunk of the van.

Atsumu leans against the car and crosses his arms. He likes the sight of Aran’s arms bunching up under his long-sleeved T-shirt. “I’ve managed to keep you entertained so far, haven’t I?”

Aran sighs, “Yes.”

“Then, let’s go, babe.” He pushes off, but doesn’t go far when he notices Aran’s back straightening and his chin burying in his chest. 

“Actually, I might just trip you into a hole.”

He grins. This is marvelous, actually. He’s never thought he’d be able to discover so many fascinating things about Aran in such a short while. Kissing magical. “Is it because you like it so much?”

“Shut up,” Aran says though he’s pulling Atsumu by his hips, kissing his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, then biting his lower lip. It’s a marvel Atsumu hasn’t said something ridiculous like _I love you_ yet. 

A couple of minutes later, and after displaying his proudly honed skill of packing stuff quickly, Atsumu hands Aran his backpack. “Let’s go, we got a hike!”

“Do we have to?” Aran complains though he’s following Atsumu through the trail, hoisting his backpack over his shoulders, and shutting the clasp across his chest. He looks so good, Atsumu wants to bite his face again. 

But he doesn’t because one face bite is enough for one morning, and he really likes the feel of Aran’s hand in his as he drags him along. There are so many things he can tell Aran about the trees and the flowers they see, the animals they hear scurrying around, but all Atsumu does is think of Aran’s hand in his, the weight of it, and how it makes him unable to say anything for a change. After a good two hundred kilometers of silence, Aran pulls at his hand.

“What?” Atsumu asks, looking back at Aran.

“You’ve been so quiet I thought you began sleep-walking.”

“No…”

“Liar, don’t you dare. I am literally behind you.”

Atsumu looks down at their intertwined hands instead of Aran’s eyes. 

“I’m just thinking.”

“Dangerous stuff, you sure you’re okay, Atsumu?” Aran says, and underneath the lighthearted jab, he hears the concern. And that’s exactly what he doesn’t want.

He lets go, and their hands fall between them, dangle a little. Aran lets out a soft sigh. “See, this is what I’ve been fearing.”

He frowns, watching Aran turn away in the middle of the trail, his fingers interlaced behind his head. 

“What do you mean?” he asks through the cotton ball in his mouth. Fear is such a wondrous thing, it forms out of nowhere, or, in this case, from the depths of one’s insecurities. And he wishes he doesn’t feel it creeping up his ankles like a damned vine, rooting him down in a field of his own self-loathing.

“You’re—I mean, it’s obvious, Atsumu, you’re being weird about this whole thing between us,” Aran says finally, turning to give Atsumu the hardest look he’s ever received. He swallows back.

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours, dude, and—Did I do something wrong?” There should be an actual foot up his ass for making Aran look this dejected. A man as good, as giving, as darling as Aran should never even consider being anything but someone’s daydream, their fantasy, their ideal. Because that’s who he is: someone made of brilliant pieces of everyone’s favorite traits. His humor. His heart. His strength. It breaks Atsumu apart when he thinks of himself in comparison to Aran’s star. 

Atsumu sighs. This, at least, he can answer. “It’s not you—”

“Oh, no. You didn’t just use the oldest line in the book on _me_.”

He smiles at how good it feels to be yelled at by Aran. “I’m not breaking up with you, Aran.”

“Good!” Aran is shouting now, and it’s good. So good. It’s a purifying hammer slamming down on him, bringing back some order into his mind. “Because,” he grunts, pulling Atsumu close by the front of his jacket, “I will not allow it.”

Atsumu looks down at him, and he wonders if Aran knows of the butterflies in his belly, rioting for him. Instead, he kisses Aran, shoving him back against a tree trunk and swallowing back the choked sigh Aran lets out. 

“Fuck you, that hurt,” Aran whispers, their forehead touching, eyes looking down at lips, tracing the glistening spit between them. Atsumu smiles.

“It’s fine, you’re strong, you can handle me.”

Instead of agreeing, Aran pushes him back. But “No. I’m not. I’m not some superhuman creature.” He keeps Atsumu close by, speaks into the inches between them, eyes hard and soft all at once. “I am a man like you are, Atsumu, and I won’t let you...turn me into some kind of idol. I’m as much skin and blood as the next guy. And believe it: even _I_ make mistakes.”

Atsumu blinks.

“Did you think I had no idea what you were thinking?” he asks, eyes dipping to look down at their held hands. Aran brushes a thumb across the back of his hand. “I may not know the extent of it, but, when I say I’ve liked you for a while, I also mean I’ve been watching you—and before you get a big head over this—shut up, I’m trying to be romantic.”

But Atsumu can’t help himself; he chokes out a laugh through the tears forming in his throat, and says, “Is this really your idea of romance?” 

“You're the one who took me on a camping trip to confess his feelings,” Aran retorts, leaving Atsumu gaping at him. He gives him a lopsided grin. “Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out?”

“No—I mean, you _might_ have guessed it when I actually did gather the courage to confess but...so soon?”

Aran shakes his head. “I admit I was disappointed with myself for not figuring it out earlier but, come on, Atsumu, I _know_ you. You’re not the most considerate person—”

Atsumu interrupts with an undignified sniff at this. “Excuse me—”

“Don’t pretend otherwise; it’s okay to be a little self-absorbed, I know this about you and I know that when it comes to the people you love, you’re nothing but giving. I mean, the evidence speaks for itself. This whole trip is a clear sign that you care for me. The net? The apples? The fucking crackers? You even borrowed Osamu’s van. I know how much that guy loves his van.”

Atsumu laughs. “He might even leave Kita and marry it instead,” he says, voice thick, his tears a little hot over his cheeks.

“Exactly. You weathered the storm that is Miya Osamu Van-Fucker to borrow it for _me_ , to give me a slice of your most secret ritual: sleeping in a fucking tent in the middle of the woods.

“It’s hardly a ritual—I just come out here when I need to make some big decision.”

Aran laughs, brings a hand to Atsumu’s cheeks to wipe away the tears. “And what was your big decision, babe?”

It’s Atsumu’s cheeks that grow a little warm but he can’t hide his face anywhere; Aran has him held with one warm palm. He’d rather never move out of Aran’s hold, to be honest. “Whether I should tell you or not.”

“Tell me what?” Aran whispers; it doesn’t disturb the bravery weaving a tapestry in Atsumu’s heart.

“That I love you.”

The words are so simply he can’t help but laugh the second they're out of his mouth because how has he been so scared of three measly words? So, he says them again. “I love you. So much. Aran, I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone, anything, like I love you.”

In answer, Aran smiles, brilliant and gorgeous, and then he’s kissing Atsumu, soft and careful, telling him in action, that he will hold Atsumu in his hands and keep him safe. 

The water is so cold Atsumu curses the universe, but then Aran is upon him, his chest warm, his hands warmer, breath heating up Atsumu from the neck down. His mouth moves over him, dips to his neck, teeth biting his clavicle. Then there’s his hands, curling over Atsumu’s waists, dragging him taut against Aran’s body. He lets himself go, flowing in Aran’s current, welcomes it. Whatever Aran gives him, he’ll make the best of it.

“Well, hello there,” Aran whispers when Atsumu slots their hips. “I see not even the cool water stops a man of your _needs_ , huh?”

His cheeks dare warm up again. “Shut up, you know you’re hot, babe,” he says, drips the pet name through pouting lips. 

And Aran, bless him, ducks his face, as if he doesn’t have hands gripping the meat of Atsumu’s thighs. Because no matter how invincible Ojiro Aran might seem to the clueless surveyor, he is still a delicate man with a sharp tongue that makes Atsumu want to live to a thousand just to be able to listen to every complaint Aran might have. 

“I’m going to get you for making me skinny dip in some lake, Atsumu.”

“And I’ll be gladly murdered by you, _babe._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is it! AranAtsu / AtsuAran for the hungry nation. This was so much fun to write especially because I've written Atsumu and Aran before but not like this; not in love. It's definitely something I wanna explore more in the future.
> 
> Comments are appreciated; screaming is PREFERRED (/j)


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